Life in words and pictures, with a sweet snark filter. You're welcome.

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Cartesian Origins

The we of me.

Put aside all the pettiness and the everyday battles and the nagging and the hate and the discussions on whether David Brooks should have just stuck it out at the fancy deli with his friend– a deli that, frankly, is just not that fancy– or whether we are all in collusion with everyone else.

What is most important to you today, this scorcher of a day where, if you don’t hydrate enough, or properly (beer doesn’t count) or mindfully (don’t drink all at once), you may die?

What is the thing that makes you make sense? The bit of your life that makes your humanity human and your descent into the nothingness that is our existence a little slower and more gentle –more like an escalator and less like tumbling down K2, if you will.

The picture above makes me make sense. Those three people, like three points, create that dimension where I can be myself-est.

The rogue ingénu with a penchant for voices and a hair-trigger temper. The mother-slash-bestie-slash-foodie-slash-pain-in-the-butt. The little quantum leap I birthed, a Schrödinger kid-not-kid with the wisdom of the ages. My X, Y and Z.